


Aftermath

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Fix [2]
Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Blood, Bruises, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, First Aid, Fix-It, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Injuries, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4401710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then Lahar sees Doranbolt -- the pained hunch of his shoulders, the tattered tear across his clothing, the way he’s leaning hard against the wall -- and everything thought but panic evaporates from his mind." Doranbolt comes homes unexpectedly and Lahar takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



Lahar isn’t expecting to have company for hours yet. Doranbolt left a few hours ago, leaving behind a kiss just above the line of Lahar’s glasses and an admonition to ‘not doing anything I wouldn’t do’; Lahar had just given him a flat look, a raised eyebrow speaking for him, and Doranbolt had laughed and vanished on whatever project he had for the day. Lahar was left with a half-empty bed, an unscheduled morning, and a strong desire to do nothing at all productive for the entire day.

He’s been doing a good job of it. He gave in to the urge to get out of bed a few hours ago, took his time washing his hair and combing it mostly-dry before making use of one of Doranbolt’s shirts as temporary clothing while the weight of the damp locks dried over his shoulders. The tea was a good choice too, the process pleasing just to work through and the result delicious, until by the time early afternoon has come Lahar is lost in the text he’s perusing and the occasional sips of tea from his favorite cup, the thought of tying his hair up or putting on real clothes so far from his mind as to be wholly absent.

Then there’s a gust of air, the weird almost-pressure of a form taking up space it wasn’t before, and Lahar looks up, startled into something almost like guilt at being caught so off-guard by Doranbolt’s return. There’s a huff of sound, a sigh heavy from the hall, and Lahar pushes back from the table, reaches up to twist his hair back into something giving the illusion of tidiness as he pads down the hallway. “Doranbolt?”

“Hey,” Doranbolt calls back, sounding winded and a little shaky. “I’m here.”

“You’re back early,” Lahar observes as he rounds the corner to the entry. He can hear the petulance in his tone, defensiveness at his current state bleeding into his voice. “I wasn’t…”

He is going to offer an explanation, a reason for why he’s still half-dressed in the middle of the afternoon and completely lacking any accomplishments for the day. But then he sees Doranbolt -- the pained hunch of his shoulders, the tattered tear across his clothing, the way he’s leaning hard against the wall -- and everything thought but panic evaporates from his mind.

“ _Doranbolt_ ,” he blurts, hands falling from his hair to reach out for the other instead. Doranbolt has an arm across his stomach, is curled in over it and breathing hard like he’s in pain, but he reaches out to catch at Lahar’s worried fingers, drags a smile onto his face that softens the corners of his pain-tight eyes.

“Hey,” he says again, tightening his fingers on Lahar’s wrist. His face is dirty, scuffed with dirt all across one side and catching in the dark of his hair; it looks like he might be bleeding from a few shallow scrapes, definitely has a bruise coming at the edge of his cheekbone. “Tough day at work.”

“Oh my god,” Lahar says, reaching out to press careful fingers at the side of Doranbolt’s neck. “Are you okay?”

“Mm,” Doranbolt hums affirmative, nods heavily. “Just had a job that got a little out of hand.”

“Let me see,” Lahar insists, letting his hand drop to tug at the arm Doranbolt has pressed against his stomach. The other capitulates to his force, lets his arm be drawn away; there’s none of the blood Lahar was afraid of, no visible sign of injury.

“It’s fine,” Doranbolt says again, the words sincere enough to be a comfort to Lahar’s experienced ear. “I got kicked. It’s bruised all to hell, but it’ll be fine.”

Lahar takes a breath, lets the air fill his taut-nervous lungs. Then he straightens his shoulders, lets the inhale out in a rush, and when he pulls at Doranbolt’s wrist it’s with the calm self-assurance he still carries from years past.

“You will be,” he says, certain in his own statement, and half-turns to lead the way down the hallway. “Come here, I’ll get you cleaned up.”

“You don’t have to,” Doranbolt protests verbally, though he’s following willingly enough. “I can take a shower and bandage what needs bandaging.”

“I’ve seen your idea of first aid,” Lahar says as he pushes the door to the bathroom open and draws Doranbolt inside. “How do you think you get scars?”

“Hey,” Doranbolt says, drawing to a halt as Lahar pulls him in to steady him against the wall. “I thought you said my scars were dashing.”

“That doesn’t mean I want you to have more of them,” Lahar says, pulling the first aid kit out from the cupboard and fishing for a towel as well. “Take your shirt off.”

“Ooh, exciting,” Doranbolt attempts, but it lacks the sound of his usual smile on the word, and when he starts to move Lahar can hear him hiss in pain as he shifts. Lahar is wetting the towel, trying not to listen to the strain of hurt on Doranbolt’s inhales; by the time he turns around Doranbolt is obediently shirtless, leaning against the wall and breathing as hard as if he’d been running.

“You’re a hard commander,” he observes as Lahar takes stock of his bare skin -- the scratches at his cheek, of course, but also the fast-rising bruise against his ribs, the mark of some heavy impact over the curve of his shoulder. There’s a wound, too, a tear through skin to match the ragged edges of his shirt; it’s not deep, but it’s smeared red, offering a trickle of blood at one corner to slide against Doranbolt’s waist.

“I’m not a commander anymore,” Lahar says, coming in to deal with the blood first. He’s seen worse, in general and even for Doranbolt specifically; he remembers the swipe across the other’s face with particular clarity, the cold calm that took over and guided his hands before he could even be sure the injury had missed the other’s eye. This is comparatively small, the worst of the blow lost to the torn shirt; it’s clotting closed by the time Lahar has wiped the blood clean, looks like barely a scratch once he’s rinsed the cloth out and turned back around to deal with Doranbolt’s cheek. It’s far worse, as far as cleaning goes; the dirt is ground in, clearly from skidding across some surface, and Doranbolt hisses pain as Lahar wipes it clean, even the soft friction of the damp towel painful enough to make him flinch.

“What  _happened_?” Lahar asks, keeping his attention on the line of Doranbolt’s cheek as he presses the torn skin clean. “I thought the plan was something safe.”

“It was supposed to be,” Doranbolt sighs. He’s steadier, now, his breathing evening out of the catch of hurt as Lahar eases the pressure of his movements as the injury comes clean. “Tempers got out of hand and we ended up in a bit of a fight.”

“A bit,” Lahar repeats, letting his voice dip into flat-line deadpan. “I can see that.” The scratches aren’t so bad as the dirt comes off; there’s a bruise against Doranbolt’s cheek, a dark line rising just under his eye, but the scratch is shallow, should heal within the week. There’s nothing really wrong, nothing worth worrying about for more than a few minutes, and yet Lahar can’t quite catch his breath, feels like there’s a weight crushing the air out of his lungs and leaving him shaky and a little light-headed with needless adrenaline.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks as he turns to drop the towel back in the sink to be rinsed later. His hands are trembling very slightly when he tries to adjust his glasses; it seems safer to turn back around, to keep his focus on the other man rather than try to steady his vision on something insignificant.

Doranbolt is smiling. It’s a strange expression, given the cut across his chest and the way he’s still curled in around the bruise at his stomach; he looks a mess, bruised bone-deep in some places and with his eyes and shoulders weighted with the pain. But his smile is still there, enough to light the color of his eyes bright and warm, and when Lahar’s eyes meet his it cracks wider, takes on the shape of a laugh before it’s cut off by a hiss of pain.

“Yeah,” Doranbolt says, grimacing at the hurt but still watching Lahar’s features. “Yeah, it’s good.”

Lahar can feel his patience giving way, the reassurance of Doranbolt’s safety granting him the leniency to indulge in the adrenaline of panic in his veins. “ _Good_ ,” he repeats, his voice cracking free of sarcastic deadpan to skip high and anxious in his throat. “What about  _any_  of this is good, Doranbolt?”

Doranbolt blinks, something like a shadow flickering over his features to dim the bright of his eyes as his smile fades. It’s only a moment; then he’s huffing a laugh, ducking his head so all Lahar can see of him is the rumpled dark of his hair, grown longer in the months since the Council.

“You are,” Doranbolt says without lifting his head. “It’s good to come home to you.”

The tears come all at once. Lahar can feel them, the rush of them through his body like ticklish electricity he is helpless to stop. It’s like all his skin goes tense for a moment, pressing uncomfortably tight over his body, and then he blinks, and his vision goes blurry without any hope of holding the emotion back.

“Oh,” he says, faint and strange in his throat, and Doranbolt lifts his head just as Lahar ducks his. Lahar has a glimpse of blue eyes, bright and wide with concern, and then his head is down, his hand coming up to cover his face while his shoulders hunch forward in self-defense. It doesn’t do any good, as far as subtlety goes; the tremble in his fingers must be as obvious as the motion of his shoulders, as the sound of tears damp on his inhales. But he has to try, has to press some kind of cover over the sudden reaction, even if Doranbolt is reaching out for him, is pulling him in to press against the ache of all those bruises.

He keeps his hand over his face, even when Doranbolt gets an arm around his back, even when the push of gentle fingers against the back of his head urges his face against the other’s bare shoulder. He can’t stop crying, can’t steady the hiccup of his breathing as the air stutters over his throat; he doesn’t even know  _why_  he’s crying, exactly, if it’s from the adrenaline-fear that Doranbolt was really hurt, or from the straightforward affection of Doranbolt’s statement, or from some strange borrowed alternative, from imagining facing the dark of being alone in a world without Doranbolt in it. It’s impossible to pull them apart; it’s all of them, and none at the same time, the weight of reality becoming too much to bear calmly for a moment.

Lahar doesn’t unfold himself, keeps his arms pressed tight at his chest and his hands over his face like he can stop the selfish breakdown that is coursing through him without consideration for his willpower. But Doranbolt doesn’t let him go either, keeps an arm pressing steady against Lahar’s back and another around his shoulders, gentle fingers fitting into his loose hair, and if Lahar can’t find the words for gratitude, he’s pretty sure Doranbolt doesn’t need to hear them aloud.


End file.
